


Praise Be

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Group Sex, Macro/Micro, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Other, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Ritual Sex, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Prompt: "100 words of fucking in a dragon." A fuck dungeon in your fuck dragon is fine too, but sometimes you gotta up the ante.
Kudos: 5
Collections: Anonymous, Unofficial FFA Anon Collection





	Praise Be

Once, Istegorm had breathed for the piquant terror wafting off a shrieking virgin sacrifice; for a glimpse of the whites in a disarmed knight's eyes as the chinks in his armor yielded to Istegorm's great and spiny length as a crab's shell did to a claw. But he was too old for that sort of thing now. He'd been too old for that a thousand years ago—grown too big, even then, long before he'd outgrown his wings and felt the nascent hardening of his scales and his bones. Centuries had passed since any humans cared to send the spears and swords of their finest heroes against him (having perhaps learned better). He had not smelt a virgin in two hundred years. He hardly saw a human from the world below more than once a decade, but rarely, just rarely, one might unwittingly trample over a trailing whisker, wandering far off the marked paths and right under his very nose.

The lost pilgrim froze under the great eye that opened to survey him. He was a young man, unarmed, and so mediocre as to be nondescript. Humans these days were, on average, taller than they used to be, better fed, and much less fit. Perhaps Istegorm was unfair to judge. He was hardly in his prime: the membranes of his wings fossilized, the moss grown into his scales, the venom in his fire-bladders hardened to coal. He did not need to be. To him the human, pinned under a claw, was as the size of an apple seed.

It was a greater effort to lift his stony head than to scoop the human up on the tip of his claw, nonchalantly dangling him about sixty feet in the air. His nostrils cracked and flared; he inhaled deep. He rumbled from deep in his chest. The aroma of animal fear was no less potent for its faintness.

Istegorm licked the young man off of his claw and was unsurprised to find he had no flavor at all. It really was a shame about humans these days. Summarily he swallowed and barely felt the wriggling speck tumbling down his throat. Even eating humans was not much fun anymore, not for him. But his acolytes would be quite pleased. (Parasites. Sycophants. Whatever one called them.) How they'd sing his praises. Lo, gather unto this pilgrim. Praise be to their gracious Lord, who had furnished unto them new breeding stock.

Soon the bells of worship would commence their clamor (making _such_ a wretched din). Soon the young man would be bound and bathed, anointed and adorned in the ceremonial gold that had once belonged to their Lord (Istegorm having long outgrown his hoard). The high priestesses, befitting their role, would first line up to take their fill of his seed, and it would easily be half a day until they had sated themselves. Then any virgins of suitable age would be brought forth—it was, for reasons obscure but unquestioned by Istegorm, especially sacred for a virgin to experience their deflowering by a new disciple. Then, his holy duties accomplished, the inductee would be made the centerpiece of a great festival, and women and men alike would gather round...

Disturbing a few nests of songbirds, Istegorm shifted his great haunches and widened his hind legs. His fossilizing sheath could just yet feel the swells and divots his own scales had made as he rutted his hips into the earth. The acolytes were accustomed to earthquakes. They meant that their Lord was pleased. O, praise be.


End file.
